The Secret of Skeleton Reef (4 page)

“Those contraptions are called mailboxes,” Flask explained. “They fasten right over the boat's propellers. We anchor the boat in a position that seems promising, then we lower the mailboxes, turn the engine on, and the mailboxes work with the propellers to blast two holes in the sand. A few divers look in the holes and others roam around, exploring elsewhere.”

“All right, Peg, we're ready to move!” Brunelli called from the top deck. Just above the top deck was the main bridge, where the steering apparatus was located. At the helm a red-haired woman started the engine and guided the
Destiny
about twenty feet forward. “That's good,” Brunelli shouted, and Peg shut down the engine.

“Prepare to drop anchor!” Flask called, surveying all points of the boat.

Frank and Joe moved to the rear, or stern, of the boat so they wouldn't block the captain's vision. Frank saw Montclare standing by one of the stern
anchor lines and Dirk standing by the other. He could see the weasel-like guy named Ziggy standing by the front, or bow, anchor line.

“Pierre, maybe you should let someone else handle that anchor,” Flask called to Montclare. “You're not experienced enough.”

“We're short a man today and I can manage it,” Montclare called back. “Let's not waste time!”

Flask eyed Montclare mistrustfully, then pushed back his cap. “Drop the anchors!” the captain commanded. Montclare pulled a lever, and a motor began to whir.

Frank glanced at the anchor line, which was a coil of thick rope sitting on the deck a few feet away. He knew the rope fed through pulleys that lowered the line down with the anchor. But something was not right. The rope was feeding into the boat rather than out of it.

At the same time Frank and Montclare realized the lever had been pulled the wrong way. Montclare reversed the lever, and the rope swiftly uncoiled and shot through the pulleys onto the bottom of the sea.

Then something bit fiercely into Frank's ankle, and his feet flew out from under him.

“Heeelp!” Frank yelled as he flew toward the stern. A section of anchor line had wrapped itself around his ankle and was yanking him straight for a pulley on the stern rail.

Joe got to his brother first. He grabbed hold of Frank and pulled, hoping to prevent his foot from being ripped to shreds in the pulley. But the force of the falling anchor was too powerful. Frank was slipping out of Joe's grasp.

“Shut it down!” Ted shouted as he also grabbed onto Frank. “Stop the anchor!”

Montclare shut down the motor. The rope stopped unwinding, but it was still tearing into Frank's leg as if it were the blade of a knife.

“Owww!” Frank cried out in pain.

Ted rushed to the anchor lever and reversed it. As the motor whirred again, rope began feeding back into the boat, causing enough slack in the rope for Frank to free his leg.

“Ahhh,” Frank gasped as he sat up on the deck. He could see blood oozing through his sock.

“You okay, kid?” Flask said as he and several other crew members hurried over. “Ziggy, get the first-aid kit.”

“I guess so,” Frank said through gritted teeth.

“Montclare!” Flask boomed at the Frenchman.

“Listen!” Montclare yelled back. “Accidentally I hauled some line toward the boat first. This created some slack in the rope and that's what he got caught in. But the boy should have been watching.”

“He's right,” Frank said after a heavy breath. “I should have been paying more attention.”

“All the same, Pierre,” Flask said, “you shouldn't even be on the boat, let alone working one of the anchors. I don't know why I let you.”

“I only did this today,” Montclare argued, “because you lost a crew member! And if anyone should not be on the boat, it is these two boys.”

Joe looked at the angry Frenchman. Maybe the anchor-line accident was Montclare's way of telling us he doesn't want us around, Joe thought.

“Okay, the show is over, folks!” Flask shouted to the crew. “Everyone back to work! Let's get that anchor down, then run the mailboxes.” At once, all the crew members returned to their chores.

Ziggy handed Flask a first-aid box, and the captain knelt down to administer to Frank's leg. Frank sucked in his breath as Flask pulled down the bloody sock. There was an ugly gash running around Frank's ankle.

“Good thing you had socks on,” Flask said as he poured hydrogen peroxide on the wound. “Otherwise it would have been a lot worse. The stars must be out of line today. First Chrissy is missing and now this.”

Joe glanced at the two men in the stern who were tilting the mailboxes into the water. He'd learned from Flask that the one with a beard was Vines and the one with a mustache was Wilson. Joe was keeping careful track of everyone on the
Destiny
. One of them could very well be the person after Chrissy Peters.

The engine was turned on and the aluminum mailboxes rattled loud as lawn mowers. “The boxes are blasting now,” Flask told the Hardys as he cut a bandage with scissors.

“So tell me, Mr. Flask,” Frank said, wanting to get his mind off his injured leg. “How did you manage to find the
Laughing Moon?
”

“Well,” Flask began, “the
Laughing Moon
was a famous pirate ship in its time, and its captain, Black Dan Cavendish, was pretty famous, too. Supposedly he and his band captured as much Spanish treasure as any of the buccaneers. Then, in the year 1712, the
Laughing Moon
disappeared. Some figured
Black Dan sailed the ship to Africa, while others figured the vessel fell victim to bad weather.”

“Has anyone else besides you looked for the
Laughing Moon?
” Joe asked.

“Oh, lots of folks,” Flask said with pride. “But none of them ever saw a trace of it.” Flask wrapped the bandage around Frank's ankle, and continued, “I was determined to find it. First, I went to Spain. They've got a big library in Seville where they keep all the logs and records from the old Spanish vessels. Boys, I spent an entire year in that library, poring over scribbled ink on yellowed parchment. Fortunately, I'm pretty good with Spanish.”

“Sounds like school,” Joe said.

“I found every reference I could to the
Laughing Moon
,” Flask continued. “And then I studied old weather reports of every location where the
Laughing Moon
was seen and every location where it might have been. Just when I was about to ruin my eyes, I figured things out. I had a good notion that in July of 1712, a storm forced the
Laughing Moon
onto Skeleton Reef. There, I figured, the rough coral of the reef ruptured the hull, and the boat sank.”

“This reef must be especially treacherous to ships,” Frank said.

“That's why they call it
Skeleton
Reef,” Flask said, chuckling as he taped Frank's bandage.

Joe heard the engine shut down and the mailboxes stop rattling. Four crew members in diving
gear jumped off a ledge at the boat's stern. “So you went to Skeleton Reef and looked around for the
Laughing Moon
,” Joe said, turning back to Flask.

“It wasn't that simple,” Flask said. “It took me another solid year to persuade the St. Lucia government to grant me the rights for the search and then to find someone to finance my work. Finally I made those two things happen and was ready to go.”

“And then you found the ship,” Joe said.

“Then I started
looking
,” Flask said, jabbing Joe with his finger. “For two years my crew and I sailed around these waters dragging a magnetometer behind us.”

“Oh, one of those iron-detecting devices?” Frank said.

“Right,” Flask said. “If the mag readout showed a large quantity of iron in the water, we would anchor the boat and dive down to check things out. We found the remains of some old heap of a boat more than once, and we found some even more worthless things, like a discarded washing machine. We also had to keep careful records of where we had been so we wouldn't cover the same area twice.”

“Wow,” Joe said, wiping sweat from his face, “that sounds like a tremendous amount of work.”

“Kid, let me tell you something,” Flask said, squinting from the sun. “Treasure hunting isn't a profession, it's an affliction. Finding a ship in the
sea is like finding a needle in a haystack—only harder. You can spend your entire life searching for something you'll never even get close to.”

“But in this case, you succeeded,” Frank said.

“Finally, two weeks ago,” Flask said, “the mag led us to some iron cannons. Then nearby we found some Spanish coins dated 1710 and 1711. When we found some jewelry, I consulted my records of what was known to have been stolen by Black Dan and his men. Sure enough, the stuff checked out, and I knew I had found remnants from the
Laughing Moon
. Yes, sir, it was the sweetest day of my crazy life.”

Flask talked some more about the
Laughing Moon
, then regaled the Hardys with colorful stories from other salvage expeditions he had led. Frank found it interesting that Flask was having trouble paying his monthly rent even though he was a professional treasure hunter. After twenty minutes the sight of the divers breaking through the water interrupted Flask's storytelling.

Everyone gathered around as the four divers climbed onto the deck. “We got some goodies this time!” Vines called, pulling off his face mask. Then the divers began unloading the net bags they carried.

Most of the objects were so encrusted with a grayish substance that it was impossible to tell what they were. Then some blackened coins tumbled to
the deck. Next came little bars shaped like fingers. When a ray of sun danced on the bars, Frank could tell they were made of solid gold.

“Pretty, isn't it?” Brunelli said, coming up to the Hardys and removing his wet-suit top. “The other stuff turns kind of funky in the sea, but not the gold. It stays luscious as the day it was mined.”

“What's the encrustation on the other objects?” Frank asked.

“Mostly rust and sulfide,” Brunelli said, rubbing seawater off his face. “We won't know what those things are until they get cleaned up a bit. The fingers of gold are called ingots, and the silver coins are called pieces of eight. I found those myself.”

A skinny man with glasses emerged from the cabin carrying a clipboard. He knelt beside the relics and began examining them carefully.

“Who is that?” Joe asked. “He doesn't look like one of the crew.”

“He's not,” Brunelli said with a scoff. “He's a marine archaeologist who works for the St. Lucia government His name's Arnie Teisenbach.”

“Why is he here?” Frank asked, making sure he didn't sound too interested. The Hardys were still trying to keep their investigation under wraps.

“The St. Lucia government insists that an archaeologist oversee the salvaging,” Brunelli said as he removed his fins. “It works like this. Teisenbach records every single item that comes up. Then he
takes it ashore every day. The precious metals are taken to a bank vault, and the jewelery and artifacts are sent to a place in the Bahamas where they get cleaned by a special chemical process. Teisenbach is responsible for every item until the expedition is officially finished.”

“So he's the one who makes sure nothing gets lost or stolen?” Frank asked.

“Right,” Brunelli answered.

“Then what happens to the booty once the expedition is finished?” Joe asked.

“Everything gets divided up,” Brunelli said. “Fifty percent goes to Montclare. Twenty-five percent goes to the St. Lucia government. Twenty percent goes to Flask. And then the crew, meaning the peons like me, we split the remaining five percent.”

“Five percent sounds small,” Frank said, “but I guess it could turn out to be a ton of money.”

“It could, if a lot of things go right,” Brunelli said. “But you never know. We may only find a fraction of the stuff we've been counting on. And because nothing can be sold until the expedition closes down, it could be a couple of years before any of us gets a penny of our profits.”

“Does Montclare pay you a salary?” Frank asked.

“A very small one,” Brunelli said, his eyes drifting toward the gleaming gold ingots. “So you see, we're in an odd position here. We're pulling up
incredibly valuable relics, maybe millions of dollars' worth, but meanwhile the crew members are living at poverty level.”

“What a bummer,” Joe said.

“It's mucho frustrating,” Brunelli said, clenching and unclenching his big fist. “I think that's why I lost my cool this morning. And, again, I'm sorry about that.”

As Joe watched four more crew members in diving gear jump off the boat, Flask approached. “Do you boys dive?” the captain asked the Hardys.

“We love to,” Joe said eagerly. “And we're both certified. Do you have some extra gear?”

“Frank is on the injured list,” Flask replied, “but, Joe, if you want to have a look at the reef, get Ted to suit you up.”

“Thanks!” Joe sprang to his feet. Soon he was decked out in scuba gear: mask, fins, weight belt, oxygen tank, and a diver's watch. He wore his cutoffs and the top of a rubber wet suit. “You've got thirty minutes of air,” Ted said as he adjusted Joe's tank. “Don't go far, and keep a close eye on your watch.”

“I understand,” Joe said, pulling his mask down and making sure the fit was snug.

“That's funny,” Ted said, glancing at the compressor used to fill the divers' tanks.

“What?” Joe asked.

“The oxygen level is lower than it should be,” Ted said, studying a dial. “I bet Isaac and Ishmael
are diving off the boat at night. They're not supposed to, but it's no big deal. Okay, have a great swim, Joe.”